


careful, princess

by gazing



Category: Call the Midwife
Genre: Alternate Universe - Royalty, Cute, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Friendship/Love, One Shot, Pining, Short & Sweet, Sweet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-19
Updated: 2020-09-19
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:40:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26544616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gazing/pseuds/gazing
Summary: As Princess Camilla's bodyguard, Peter has to be extra diligent.
Relationships: Chummy Browne/Peter Noakes
Comments: 2
Kudos: 7





	careful, princess

**Author's Note:**

> i found this fic in my google drive from 2019 and i decided to post it !! <3 hope you enjoy

Evening is Peter Noakes’ favourite part of the day for 2 reasons.

Reason number one is, obviously, dinner. As the sun dims and the castle quiets, with it comes the bustle of chefs; cutlery clanging, shuffling feet, the joyous sounds of the servants singing as they work. The smell of food drifts over the halls and bedrooms. Warm and present. For once, the large castle feels a little like his home. Just for that hour of dinner. Just for a moment of the day.

They have a routine, of course. The royal family slip into their dining room, immaculate as always (although Camilla usually stumbles over her dress as she tries to shuffle through the door in heels). Peter has the option to eat in the dining room, but he prefers to have a moment with the servants; he laughs loudly with them as he drinks hot whiskey and stuffs himself with food so rich and filling that he can’t help but remember days when he’d slept in a dirty bed and wished only for bread and water.

But reason number two…. 

Well. After dinner, Princess Camilla often pulls on those bright green slacks that are at once ugly and completely charming, and sneaks out of the castle and into the grounds. Peter follows close behind her and observes with wariness the way she falls over her own feet into mud, the way she tries to chase squirrels but runs head first into a tree, instead. He would never admit it (would flush at the very thought), but evenings are his favourite simply because this is when Camila is most herself. 

This is when Peter gets to see her  _ real  _ smile - not the princess smile, the one she puts on for the public. No, that smile is tight lipped and anxious. On evenings, out of the way of the cameras, she smiles with teeth and gums. It’s messy, but it’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. If his heart skips a little, trips over itself like Camilla in heels, he feels it’s only justified.

Tonight, Camilla is standing by the lake and throwing ducks small pieces of bread. She’s chattering away to them; every now and again Peter hears snippets of complaints like  _ mother  _ and  _ diet,  _ and he has to hide his smile behind his hand.

Then, as usual, something goes wrong. One moment, Camilla is backdropped against a fading sunset, and Peter is idly imagining how soft her hands would be. The next, Camilla is slipping on the mud as she leans forward to feed a duck, and she’s falling into the lake, and Peter is lunging forward to grab her before she dies in a way completely befitting of Princess Camilla Noakes-

Her hands are as soft as Peter thought they would be. The thought runs around and around his brain as he pulls her to her feet. He notices the lines beneath Camilla’s eyes, the dips in her face - and he worries vaguely if the awe is showing on his face. If she can see in his eyes wonder and affection as she drips lake water and sludge from her slacks onto his shoes. 

“Careful, princess.” Peter says, smiling.

“Oh, Camilla is fine. Thank you, Peter.” She laughs, a loud, nervous sound, and Peter realises he probably should let go of her hands now. “I think saving me from imminent death, that is, drowning with fishes, is more than enough to warrant first name basis.”

*

Camilla’s bedroom is right next door to Peter’s.

It makes sense, of course. For her safety. But - she sings in the shower, an off key, lovely noise; she shuffles around way after midnight, even on days she has to be up at 5am; she plays music, often, humming along. Peter has reports and forms to complete, has important duties to fulfill, but she distracts him. Seeps into the corners of his bedroom. Even  _ here,  _ in his own space, he can’t escape her.

Tonight, Peter (ever dilligent, ever alert even in sleep) is roused by the sound of Camilla’s door clicking shut in the early hours of the morning. He rubs his eyes as he scans the corridors, but he isn’t worried - his suspicions are proven right when he finds Camilla in her nightgown in the kitchen. Leaning over the table to cut a cake, of all things. Peter loses his breath for a moment. She’s so soft in the moonlight… her hair curls slightly around her face, slightly in her eyes so that she keeps pushing a strand away-

Then Camilla spots him watching and jumps violently, managing to slice her finger in the process. Peter has to use all of his self control not to laugh, but even still his mouth twitches into a smile.

“Oh, it’s just you.” Camilla sighs in relief. “If mother catches me stuffing my face again she’ll exile me to France, mark my words.”

“Did you hurt yourself?” Peter asks. 

“It seems so. I suppose I shall bleed to death, and then what shall they do?” Camilla announces dramatically, waving her hand in the air. Peter does laugh, this time - it bubbles out of him, too joyous to contain in his throat.

“Come here.”

Peter keeps plasters in his pockets; he’d learned that lesson first week on the job. She shuffles over to him sheepishly. His heart almost bursts out of his chest when he takes her hand - it’s so small compared to his, soft under his fingertips. He wraps the plaster around her finger gently, and she looks down at him with a quiet tenderness that he’s never seen before. It fills the whole room with warmth.

The longer they look at each other in silence, the louder his pulse gets in his ears. She’s smiling at him now. It makes Peter want to reach forward and press his mouth to her cheek, just because he can. 

But he can’t. Of course, of course, he can’t. 

“Why, thank you.” Camilla stumbles over her words. “Pink with polka dots. My favourite.”

*

When Peter had first started, Camilla was  _ adamant  _ that she didn’t need a bodyguard. She wasn’t a damsel in distress, she’d proclaimed heartily, and she didn’t need rescuing. But in the end, the more they’d talked, the more she’d grown to trust him, just enough to accept his help, even if her cheeks were a little pink and her shoulders a little tense while she did it. 

He reminisces about this as he files today’s report. It had been a cold, hard day - Camilla had been in nothing but a dress and Peter had longed to wrap his jacket around her shoulders. She’d shivered under the cameras, and there had been jostling and shouting too. He’d seen frustrated tears at the edges of her eyes and it had made him distressed. He could protect her from the world, but this? The feelings, these things pressing on her chest? Those were hers, and he couldn’t protect her from herself.

So when the low hissing in the corridor starts that night, when he hears the Queen insulting Camilla again, fury rises in his chest like hot coal. She wasn’t treat  _ properly.  _ Peter had seen all sides to Camilla - her loud voice, her laughter, her angry tears, her sense of adventure. And he loved them all. He couldn’t comprehend the criticism thrown at her constantly. 

An hour later, there’s a knock at his door. Camilla is standing in her nightgown looking sheepish.

“I’m sorry.” She smiles, but it’s fading, turned down at the edges. “I didn’t want to be alone. Can I come in?”

When he lets her inside, Peter knows his room won’t feel the same again. She’s only sitting at the edge of his bed but already the room smells like her perfume and chocolate and whiskey. He sits beside her on the bed and their shoulders are touching,  _ just.  _

“Is there something wrong with me, Peter?” Camilla looks down at her knees. She’s playing with the edge of his bedsheets and Peter wants to take her hand in reassurance, but he can’t. “If it isn’t my weight, it’s the way I dress, or- I’m never  _ good  _ enough.”

Peter wants to cry. Or gather her in his arms. He smiles, instead.

“No, Camilla.” He says. “You are absolutely perfect.”

When her breath catches in her throat - when she turns to him with wide eyes, her face bright and open - he wants to kiss her. He wants to press his hands against her skin, to make her feel safe and loved. He wants to  _ know,  _ know everything, know if they’d fit together perfectly like he thinks they might. 

And perhaps- maybe- Camilla wants that too. Because she’s leaning in closer, grabbing him by the cheeks and  _ oh.  _ They do fit together perfectly, just like he thought. Her kiss tastes like hot cocoa and lipstick and her hair feels so much softer than it looks. Peter feels as if he’s going to burst with all the hope in his chest, blooming and stuttering when she presses deeper.

“Oh,” Camilla breathes, when she pulls away, and the smile that splits across her face is one that Peter will remember forever. She wipes lipstick from his face with her sleeve. “Mother is going to  _ kill  _ me.”

*

Evening is Peter Noakes’ favourite part of the day for 3 reasons. Dinner, Camilla’s walks, and the feeling of her pressed against his back during the night, when she sneaks over to his room and climbs into the bed beside him. She kisses the back of his neck, snuggles ever closer, and Peter feels at home.

  
  



End file.
